Weight of the World
by mmmspike
Summary: Short ficlet about Buffy and Spike 2 weeks after the events of 'Sleepers'. Angsty, sweet. Please R&R!


Disclaimers: None of this is mine, unfortunately.  
  
Spoilers: Through season 7 episode 'Sleeper'  
  
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He cries at night, sometimes.  
  
When the house is still and he can finally be alone with his thoughts, his personal demons, he cries. Long, loud, wracking sobs that permeate the heart, the soul . . . her bedroom walls.  
  
She sits on the mattress with pillows covering her ears, taking deep, slow breaths and thinking of happier times. Of times when the edges of black and white weren't so blurred, and she knew what her job was, how to do it and who to do it to . . . happier times? Easier, at least.  
  
Lowering the pillows warily, she listens for sounds coming from downstairs . . . for the cries she has gotten so used to. Silence.  
  
She gets up from the bed and makes her way across the hall, standing at the front of the stairway. A murmuring voice greets her where she stands, and she clenches her eyes shut, turning to go. She stops, however, morbid curiosity, perhaps even a touch of empathy, causing her to stay.  
  
"I told her . . . make you feel it . . . give her what she deserves . . . give that -bitch- what she deserves."  
  
She grimaces at the words, filled with such anger, hate and rage. The tone softens suddenly, and the babbling voice changes direction.  
  
"I'm a good boy, I am . . . William's a good boy . . . does as he's told. Won't go to the stream without asking again, won't cross the road . . . carriages and such. Dreadful habit."  
  
A sigh passes her lips. The accent and manner in which he speaks is so very . . . un-Spike like that it frightens her. So very refined and gentlemanly that she wouldn't have believed he could speak in such a way unless she had heard it herself. At least it was that way in the beginning.  
  
After two constant weeks of living with him, she had grown accustomed to Spike's little . . . quirks. She had assumed she had gotten used to them; he always managed to surprise her, however. Tonight was no exception.  
  
He stills again; soft whimpering sounds betraying his silence. She sits on the top step, placing her head in the palms of her hands and thinking. She wonders if he can hear her.  
  
She figures he can.  
  
"You . . . leave me alone. Leave. You're not here! Not here! Bloody well sodding not here! I'm not going to let you . . . do that. Not again."  
  
His screams die down to a soft murmur and she sighs again. Despite a lapse or two, he seems so lucid during the daytime that it confuses her how he could be like -this- at night. So clearly not in the right that it disturbs her . . . worries her. She is constantly worried anymore.  
  
"I don't . . . she won't. I won't. Not for you, not ever. Not for me . . . you . . . her. Won't let me forget . . . did what you wanted! Killed all of those . . . God, I didn't . . . killed. Soulless, evil, THING."  
  
His words die down as he starts to sob again. The long, painful cries bear a hole in her heart, and her throat tightens into a knot. She can't handle it when he cries.  
  
The heart wrenching moans remind her of after she came back. She used to cry like that, she remembers, almost every night. Hollow, pitiful, miserable cries. Heaven had been ripped away from her, and she lived in hell. She would never be happy again, or so she had believed.  
  
She felt so utterly, miserably -alone-.  
  
The sobs grow noisier, more drawn out, as she makes her way down the stairs and into the living room that Spike is currently occupying. He listens to her walk downstairs and quiets, sniffling now.  
  
She stops at the foot of the stairs, contemplating leaving, but goes over to him anyway. He sits in the chair in the middle of the room, hunched over despite the ropes that are tightly binding him. The moonlight shining in from the curtains reflect the tears on his cheeks, but she pretends not to notice. In the dim light, he watches her.  
  
She hates the way that he watches her lately, with a suspicious glint in his eyes. Steely, determined, confused. He doesn't believe she is trustworthy, and she tries not to let it hurt her feelings. It does every time.  
  
"Spike."  
  
She calls his name softly, reaching a hand out to him. He sniffs silently, then responds in a warbling voice.  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
The tissue box is on the coffee table, and she grabs it, holding it in her hands tentatively.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
Her voice is tender and soft, betraying her emotions. He looks confused, not so cautious as before. She relaxes.  
  
"Nothing's wrong. Why are you here?"  
  
She pulls a tissue from the box, playing with it in her hand for a moment before drawing it to his face, blotting his tears away carefully.  
  
"I heard you."  
  
He yanks his face away, ashamed.  
  
"Nothing to hear."  
  
"Spike, it's okay. It's okay to cry, it's not a weakness. You need to -"  
  
"Go."  
  
His voice is steely and determined, but Buffy can see the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. She reaches out to him again, brushing her hand against his face tenderly.  
  
"Spike -"  
  
"I don't deserve it," he says, his voice a near-whisper.  
  
"Don't deserve what?"  
  
"This."  
  
His voice cracks and he sighs, looking away.  
  
"Your pity," he continues, "You're too good for me. Don't deserve your . . . empathy. Don't . . ."  
  
"Ssh, ssh, ssh," she coos, wiping at his tears with a gentle hand. "Don't say that."  
  
"I don't!" The volume in his voice raises a pitch, and he quickly lowers it, hoping not to disturb Dawn. "I've . . . I've -killed-, Buffy. Don't deserve -"  
  
"I've killed, too," she says, brushing strings of platinum hair away from his face. "We all make mistakes, Spike. You're only human."  
  
"I'm not," he wails, tears streaming down his face in rivets, "I'm not a human . . . a -man-. Said so yourself. Don't deserve anything but . . . death. And pain."  
  
"Well . . ." she pauses, thinking carefully. "If it makes you feel better, I'm not human either."  
  
He looks at her through his tears, studying her face.  
  
"You know, came back wrong and all?" She gives him an awkward smile. "We're not so different."  
  
"I've killed, though, Buffy!" he cries, "I've killed thousands, and they won't . . . they can't keep quiet. I hear 'em. They talk to me and tell me . . . remind me of what I've done. All of 'em. Don't deserve happiness. Not after what I did to them, and after what I did to . . . did to you."  
  
She sighs and finds her own tears rising, and swallows heavily.  
  
"You know what you did was wrong . . . so you got your soul. That's gotta say something."  
  
"It doesn't. They say it doesn't . . . shouldn't matter. Still a monster."  
  
He turns to her, his eyes red and his face wet with tears.  
  
"I'm a monster."  
  
Reaching her arms out to him, she grabs him into a hug, wrapping her arms around the chair. Screw inhibitions.  
  
"Ssh, ssh, ssh. Don't say such things."  
  
He rests his head against her shoulder, letting his cool tears stream into her nightshirt.  
  
"Why won't they let me rest, Buffy? Can't I rest?"  
  
She cradles him, letting his teardrops intermingle with hers, bearing the weight of his pain and blood and tears.  
  
Weight of the world.  
  
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He cries at night, sometimes.  
  
She cries with him.  
  
  
  
END 


End file.
